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FIVE SONNETS FOR GALATEA.

I.

STREPHON, in vain thou bring'st thy rhymes and

songs, Dèck'd with grave Pindar's old and wither'd flow'rs; In vain thou count'st the fair Europa's wrongs, And her whom Jove deceiv'd in golden show'rs. Thou hast slept never under myrtle's shed ; Or, if that passion hath thy soul oppress'd, It is but for some Grecian mistress dead, Of such old sighs thou dost discharge thy breast; How can true love with fables hold a place? Thou who with fables dost set forth thy love, Thy love a pretty fable needs must prove: Thou suest for grace, in scorn more to disgrace. I cannot think thou wert charm’d by my looks, O no! thou learn'st thy love in lovers' books.

II.

No more with candid words infect mine ears ;
Tell me no more how that you pine in anguish ;
When sound you sleep, no more say that you lan-

guish;
No more in sweet despite say you spend tears.
Who hath such hollow eyes as not to see,
How those that are hair-brain'd boast of Apollo,
And bold give out the Muses do them follow,
Though in love's library, yet no lovers be.

If we, poor souls! least favour but them show,
That straight in wanton lines abroad is blaz'd;
Their names doth soar on our fame's overthrow;
Mark'd is our lightness, whilst their wits are prais'd.
In silent thoughts who can no secret cover,
He may, say we, but not well, be a lover.

III.

YE who with curious numbers, sweetest art,
Frame Dedal nets our beauty to surprise,
Telling strange castles builded in the skies,
And tales of Cupid's bow and Cupid's dart;
Well, howsoe'er ye act your feigned smart,
Molesting quiet ears with tragic cries,
When you accuse our chastity's best part,
Nam'd cruelty, ye seem not half too wise ;
Yea, ye yourselves it deem most worthy praise,
Beauty's best guard ; that dragon, which doth keep
Hesperian fruit, the spur in you does raise,
That Delian wit that otherways may sleep:
To cruel nymphs your lines do fame afford,
Oft many pitiful, not one poor word.

IV,

If it be love, to wake out all the night,
And watchful eyes drive out in dewy moans,
And, when the Sun brings to the world his light,
To waste the day in tears and bitter groans;
If it be love, to dim weak reason's beam
With clouds of strange desire, and make the mind

In hellish agonies a Heav'n to dream,
Still seeking comforts where but griefs we find;
If it be love, to stain with wanton thought
A spotless chastity, and make it try
More furious flames than his whose cunning wrought
That brazen bull, where he intomb’d did fry;
Then sure is love the causer of such woes,
Be ye our lovers, or our mortal foes.

V.

And would you then shake off Love's golden chain,
With which it is best freedom to be bound ?
And, cruel! do you seek to heal the wound
Of love, which hath such sweet and pleasant pain?
All that is subject unto Nature's reign
In skies above, or on this lower round,
When it its long and far-sought end hath found,
Doth in decadens fall and slack remain.
Behold the Moon, how gay her face doth grow
Till she kiss all the Sun, then doth decay!
See how the seas tumultuously do flow
Till they embrace lov'd banks, then post away:
So is't with love: unless you love me still,
O do not think I'll yield unto your will!

SONNET.

CARE's charming sleep, son of the sable night,
Brother to death, in silent darkness born,

Destroy my languish ere the day be light,
With dark forgetting of my care's return;
And let the day be long enough to mourn
The shipwreck of my ill-adventur'd youth ;
Let wat’ry eyes suffice to wail their scorn,
Without the troubles of the night's untruth.
Cease, dreams, fond image of my fond desires!
To model forth the passions of to-morrow;
Let never rising Sun approve your tears,
To add more grief to aggravate my sorrow:
Still let me sleep, embracing clouds in vain,
And never wake to feel the day's disdain.

MELAMPUS'S EPITAPH.

All that a dog could have
The good Melampus had :
Nay, he had more than what in beasts we crave,
For he could play the brave;
And often, like a Thraso stern, go mad:
And if

ye had not seen, but heard him bark, Ye would have sworn he was your parish clerk.

THE HAPPINESS OF A FLEA.

How happier is that flea,
Which in thy breast doth play,
Than that pied butterfly,
Which courts the flame, and in the same dotu die!
That hath a light delight,
Poor fool! contented only with a sight;

When this doth sport, and swell with dearest food, And, if he die, he knight-like dies in blood.

CHANGE OF LOVE.

Once did I

weep

and groan,
Drink tears, draw loathed breath,
And all for love of one,
Who did affect my death :

thanks to disdain !
I live reliev'd of pain.
For sighs I singing go,
I burn not as before-no, no, no, no!

But now,

CONSTANT LOVE. TIME makes great states decay, Time doth May's pomp disgrace, Time draws deep furrows in the fairest face, Time wisdom, force, renown, doth take away; Time doth consume the years, Time changes works in Heav'n's eternal spheres; Yet this fierce tyrant, which doth all devour, To lessen love in me shall have no pow'r.

EURYMEDON'S PRAISE OF MIRA,

Gem of the mountains, glory of our plains !
Rare miracle of nature, and of love!
Sweet Atlas, who all beauty's heavens sustains,
No, beauty's heaven, where all her wonders move;

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